Ways that my office is like being in prison

8 hours a day, 5 days a week. Serving time.
  1. Your cubicle is your cell.
    Maybe you can't personalize it to the extent that you would prefer, but it's your safe place. Pictures of your family you haven't seen, an uncomfortable chair, sad and lonely,gray walls.
  2. It's cold as fuck.
    It's cold as fuck. But the temperature is controlled by The Man. A C.O. or maybe a menopausal woman who just can't keep her sweaty hands off the thermostat. Either way, no matter the temperature, you're not dressed appropriately.
  3. Yard time is precious.
    Yard time/lunch time is precious, but dangerous. When they let us out, we wonder "maybe I can just escape this place". But we know better. Finish your lean cuisine and get back in there Cheryl.
  4. The people you work with are insane.
    The folks you come across you think, "how did you get this job?" Or "what crime did you commit to be sent here?" Either way, when Donna starts crying because the Staples order of Post Its is on backorder, it's time to move out the fucking way.
  5. Contraband is hidden, well.
    "Yo, I bought a thing of ice cream. It's in the freezer, wrapped in foil, placed in a gluten free matzah box."